


Gee Buddy, Life Sure is Complicated!

by fvartoxin



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Canonical Character Death, M/M, Not OOC for the characterizations on the RP server they come from, Other, Sad boys sad boys whatcha gonna do, it's mentioned at least, transgender character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:41:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27068800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fvartoxin/pseuds/fvartoxin
Summary: Maybe it's....not a good idea to accept mental health advice from some guy you're porking? IDK man, you do you.This ended up being a lot less of a crackship than I'd initially thought. Still, it was never a thing meant to last, and eventually people move on. This piece is set a few short years before the main events of the RP server they're on proper came to be.
Relationships: Jonathan Crane/Charles Brown, Kite-Man/Scarecrow
Kudos: 2





	Gee Buddy, Life Sure is Complicated!

**Author's Note:**

> Yes this particular version of The Scarecrow has a complicated relationship with cultural pressures when it comes to intimacy/family. No I will not be going into detail with that. At least not now lol. Also, I wrote this in a frenzied 2 hour-long session of scrawling down whatever came into my head.

He’s distantly aware of the fact that he’s on that tremulous border between wake and sleep; limbs heavy, eyes loosely shut, floating weightlessly in what felt like a heavy fog. But, despite the fact that he’s in a prison cell – a prison cell that is in no way his own, to boot – it’s dark and (for once) it’s blessedly quiet, so he could stand to care. The moments go by. He slips away. 

Until, that is, someone starts speaking right next to his good ear. Rather loudly, for the current situation. 

“Do cats have feelings? I guess that’s a little vague, but,” and here the younger Rogue’s eyebrows furrow in the dark, “like, I know they can’t smile or anything. But can they feel sad? _We_ can feel sad. And so can dogs.” 

The biting reply of ‘Ask Catwoman, why don’t you?’ dies in his throat. It’d be ideal if he didn’t have to speak right now, but, no use slighting someone who’d arguably shown him the first thimble-sized measure of kindness he’d been shown in years. He allows his brain the moments it needs to make sense of the deluge that’s been thrown at it, then struggles to lift his chin off his outstretched arm. (Which, granted, felt only marginally better than bare mattress.) “And it took you a few months to ask that.” The sentence is slightly unclear, slurred by drowsiness. 

“Dude. Didn’t know you had a cat. The cat was kind of one of the last things I learned about.” From his prone position, one Charles Brown shrugs. “Not gonna lie, man. I really don’t think ‘So, do you have any pets?’ is a question a lot of people in this kind of,” he wiggles a hand aimlessly in the air, “ _situation_ would ask. Or care about. I’m just a conversation kind of guy.” His face falls. “Maybe that’s why I haven’t gotten into a serious relationship since, well, CJ. Come to think of it.” 

Half-awake as he is, the first comment almost gets him to laugh. “Suppose not, no. Prison sex is prison sex.” Even if Arkham Asylum claimed to be anything but. Then Crane sucks a ragged breath in through his teeth, slitted eyes narrowing further. “No.” 

“Sorry, what was that?” 

Still fighting back the post-intercourse urge to vomit profusely, he readjusts his position on the bed so that he’s unsubtly looming over the D-list Rogue, half-lidded gaze burning into the man’s. “It ain’t that yeh talk too much. You’re _afraid_ , Mr. Brown. Avoidant. Fear does tend to be the source of most people’s problems, I find. But that’s only human nature.” 

There’s still blood on his breath, Charlie notes. He looks into those wine-dark eyes, and does not blink. 

“Certainly can’t blame you for that, anyhow. Ain’t every day that a man loses a child.” Not even in Gotham, as much as the crime rate was high. 

“Once is more than enough,” and his voice is hollow, far hollower than he feels. “I’m not saying that I’m not afraid of anything; I don’t like lying as much as the next guy.” Or at the very least, the next sane, reasonable citizen. Which he liked to think he still was, in part. “But that’s a lot to unpack. I’m also not a psychologist, so I’m not saying you’re wrong—”

“I’m no optimist, but what do you think are the chances?” He’s pushing it as he always does, tiptoeing on a knife’s edge. “Realistically.” 

For a singular moment, all the panic, anger, and _dread_ that he’s been holding back for years flashes in that non-blinded eye. “I don’t know. I, uhh, wasn’t exactly prepared for an impromptu therapy session. Not to say I’m not game, because the whole point of a therapist is that they’re supposed to be impartial and despite all of _this_ I barely know who you are as a person so yeah, that works, _but_.” And Kite-Man sucks in a massive breath. “That’s not something I tend to think about. But probably lower than I think, right? The news sure does glorify a lot of things.” 

Some people just never grew out of that childhood phase of being trusting. It was almost adorable, in a way. 

He’s quiet as a 4 AM graveyard, still to the point that the average man’s night vision likely wouldn’t pick up the too-shallow movement of his malformed chest. “I didn’t study mathematics, but y’ain’t wrong. Think we both know the statistical reports in this city are outdated.” Those jagged features soften, and in an instant he looks nothing like what he’s pretending to be. “Can’t get him back. But don’t let that stop you from living. Chew on that fer a while. Better to get what enjoyment yeh can out of things, ‘stead of being frozen in time forever. That ain’t a way to live.” 

“Have _you_ lost a son, Dr. Crane?” He doesn’t mean for that to come out as harsh as it did, and flinches almost as soon as the words leave his lips. 

There’s a weight to the silence now. 

“Several children, actually.” There’s a distinct, dry impartiality to his husky tone; his gaze drifts from Charlie’s face to the wall beyond, unfocused. “’bout five or six or so that I consciously noticed. In some cases, there’s even records.” 

In the dark, when you’ve got one working eye, it’s hard to see anything clearly. “Oh. Oh _God_ , man. That’s. That’s a lot.” He might very well be sick, but tamps the nausea down in order to continue speaking. “But you know what it’s like, then.” 

“On some level?” Habitually, he raises a brow, eyes coming to rest on Charlie once again. “Tragedy connects us all, you could say.” It was as much of an answer as it wasn’t. 

“I…yeah man, I guess it does.” 

“You, at the least, got to know your boy. Think about that. What time you had. Not about his death. Ain’t anything that can be done with that.” 

Shakily, he sighs. “I can’t promise that I won’t slip up. But I’ll try my best, definitely.” For himself, if no one else. But especially for the few that needed him to be strong. He thinks of Drury, of Kitten, and stares at the ceiling. “Probably better than just sitting here constantly replaying events in my mind, yeah? Geez.” Another deep breath. “I definitely _do not_ have the time to get a therapist, so all of that sure was something. So. Thank you for letting me get some things off my chest, I guess. I feel like that’s an appropriate thing to say.” 

“’Course.” Whatever else he’d been about to say is interrupted by a yawn, and, old bones protesting all the while, he slowly lowers himself back down to the meager bedspread. “I, obviously, ain’t a therapist. That, and,” he laughs, breath wheezing in his throat, “I hate people. But as long as _this_ is happening, might as well talk to me. Can’t say you’re as awful as some.” 

“I’ve definitely been in better situations,” especially given the fact he hadn’t been meant to be shuttled into Arkham Asylum. “But I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Never have been.” 

“In you, maybe that’s an admirable trait.” 

“I’m sorry for your loss, by the way.” 

“Oh…Well.” He doesn’t bother to hide his surprise. ” _I am too_.” 

“So…like, is this too personal, or— because I can stop.” 

“If you’re wondering whether they’re _biologically_ mine, yes. Long story, and not one I tend to talk about.” For several complicated reasons, given his physical status. 

Jerkily, Charlie nods his head. “Yeah. I’ll admit, I don’t really understand any of that sort of stuff, but I’m not gonna press. It’s not what I do. If people want to be left alone, I’m happy to leave. And, hey; I’ll let you know if a guard starts walking this way, huh? Seems like you need a few more hours of rest more than I do.” 

“’s appreciated,” he murmurs in return, low enough that he can barely be heard.


End file.
